


Sharps, Flats, and Naturals

by herbailiwick



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Actors, Genderfluid, Los Angeles, M/M, Voice Acting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-13
Updated: 2014-07-13
Packaged: 2018-02-08 15:59:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1947303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herbailiwick/pseuds/herbailiwick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Queer!Sam Day 6: <a href="http://queersamweek.tumblr.com/info">AU</a></p><p>Voice Actor AU. Genderfluid!Sam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sharps, Flats, and Naturals

**Author's Note:**

> I've never written anything like this before, so if there's anything that you think this fic could benefit from, if there's anything you think I should consider or reconsider, please let me know.

Bobby has really steady hands. They'd always helped him when he'd worked on cars in his lonely home growing up. They help him now, when he tinkers with engines, souping up cars as a hobby.

They help him when he plays the trombone, the clarinet, the piano, when he draws in the little music notes on his staff paper. Even when he pushes "record".

They help him when he paints Sam's fingernails. 

Sam ties her hair back and shoves the guitar out of her favorite chair. "Bobby," she calls, and he takes his sweet time shaving before finally coming to see her. 

"Yeah?" He takes a look at Sam, with her pulled-back hair, with her tank top with the tiny straps and the row of lace. "What can I do for you, babe?"

She smiles, proud, pleased. She offers her hand out, palm down, wiggling her fingers slightly.

"You pick a color," he says in assurance, since it's a new routine and they're still figuring it out. "And then hang on. I bought something."

"You bought something?" she asks in a whisper, surprised. She follows him to the bedroom, where he reaches for one of his beat-up hats and puts it on, where he pulls open the top drawer of the dresser and pulls out a plastic bag.

"Yeah," he explains. "It's like a little pen that lets you draw with nail polish."

She makes a happy sigh and he can imagine that it means something along the lines of, "That's adorable." She watches as he gets it out of the bag to the sound of soft plastic crinkling. He then tries to fiddle with the shrink wrap for a moment before giving up, reaching for his pocket knife, and cutting it free.

"We could do polkadots," he points out.

Sam shakes her head.

"Or somethin' more...inventive, I guess." Her smirk tells him that sounds like a better idea.

Sam settles into her chair rather than slumps, and Bobby tugs the piano bench over for him to sit on, setting her chosen color of polish next to him, as well as the polish remover, a few q-tips, and a paper towel.  

"You nervous?" he asks. She shakes her head. 

"You'll knock 'em dead," he tells her. "I heard you practicing. We're not out of juice, are we?" She shakes her head again. 

"Good." He paints a very delicate pink over Sam's nails. Sam likes more subtle colors, in general. She likes to draw attention to her nails every once in a while, but doesn't like to draw much attention to herself as a whole, because she prefers to act rather than to have to impress on her own merits.

"Trees?" he asks. She eyes him incredulously.

"Uhmmmm... _god_. S-...seagulls?"

Sam tilts her head, considering. She offers her hand with just a bit more intent. Seagulls it is. Little W's.

"Good. Cause if I had to think of somethin' else, you know it was gonna be music notes.  _Again_." She grins, and it's dazzling. Bobby lets his gaze focus on his project again, careful. He decides in the end that they aren't horrible. Their curves are uniform enough to all look like the same thing but not so uniform they don't look like little birds.

"Don't think anyone'll know what they _are_ ," he admits, "but you do. Hell, maybe we'll add a little line of blue at the bottom, like the ocean." Sam nods fervently.   

Sam really likes the look, admiring them. 

Bobby sighs. "I gotta finish those last few measures on guitar," he shares. 

Sam reaches out. She puts her hand on his shoulder, smiles at him with the same encouragement she has for years. She is everything. She's his muse. 

***

His handiwork's still there a few days later when Sam's howling with laughter over something and wearing one of those hipster plaid shirts Bobby sometimes teases him about. This one's purple.

"That's not true!" Sam says to Dean. "You didn't bet Grandpa you could do that."

"Oh my god!" Bobby exclaims, standing behind Sam to get a good look at Dean over Skype. "What the hell happened to you?"

"85-year-old stuntman challenged me and won," Dean grumbles.

"That's cause he knows his limits! Do you want me to come over?" asks Sam. "I mean, in all honesty, your face is...aw man."

"You wanna come over and play _nurse_? Hell no. Mom's been doing that all _day_. You two should get me out of here, in fact. You should take me somewhere great. Some kind of music somethin' or other. Someplace dark."

Sam turns to Bobby. "Bobby?"

Bobby nods at Sam. "Okay," he tells Dean. He knows a good place for Dean to hang out where not many people will stare.

"You still got your nails on. You like 'em?"

"Yeah," Sam says, sincerely. "I really do." He takes another look at them. "Thank you."

"Sure thing," Bobby says, resting a hand on Sam's shoulder. "Your waist looks awesome in that shirt," he points out. "Is it new?"

"Yeah. Although, if we're goin' to that play Rufus is playing for, I'm gonna change," Sam says. He ducks into the bedroom then comes out a few moments later to shyly ask if Bobby'll help him pick out some clothes.

"I really think you know more about fashion than I do at this point," Bobby points out, but he takes a look. "Oh, okay. The gray one." The gray one is flowy, but simple in shape with an asymmetrical ruffle near the bottom.

"And then...I thought my black blouse." Sam chews their lip. 

"Perfect," Bobby says. "It'll look great."

They wind their fingers through Bobby's under the glow of the houselights as Dean explains more about his schooling a la Samuel. 

"You  _have_ to be more careful, Dean," Sam groans. "I want you around long enough to be able to school  _your_ smartass grandkid at the age of 85."

"Oh cool!" Dean says, breaking off for a moment. He reaches for Sam's other hand. "That's new. What is that? W's?"

"They're _seagulls_ ," Sam says like it's obvious. "Bobby made them."

"Well, you look nice," Dean shares, looking Sam up and down once. "I think maybe you're finally starting to lose the whole fashionally-challenged look, which was getting old."

"'Least one of us is gonna get old, Dean," they snarked, smug as the houselights started to fade, knowing they pretty much got the last word in.

"That's cold, Sam," whispered Dean.


End file.
